


crown heights

by clarkedarling



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Notting Hill AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkedarling/pseuds/clarkedarling
Summary: the life of simple record store owner changes when she meets the most famous film star in the world.
Relationships: Phillip Carlyle & Anne Wheeler, Phillip Carlyle/Anne Wheeler
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	1. pop's records

It started off like any other Wednesday. Anne Wheeler, ever the early bird, awoke as the sun rose above the skyscrapers. Slithers of amber light bounced off the thousands of glass windows, causing New York in the morning to appear as though it were on fire. After brushing her teeth, showering, dressing and taming her hair as best as possible, she was ready for the day ahead. Preferring the taste of her own filtered coffee to the far too frothy, far too sweet concoctions most trendy cafés served, she took her flask with her, along with a slice of buttered toast. She enjoyed being outside before the rest of the city woke up, skipping along the empty sidewalks as though she were in a perfume advert.

A heatwave had hit New York, the temperature climbing into the high 80’s - the weekend was forecast mid 90’s. Travelling by the subway had become unbearable, with each carriage full of the nasty smell of stale sweat, at least three people fainting by the lunch. Anne, who lived in a cramped and overpriced apartment in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, was fortunate that her apartment and her place of work were situated in the same neighbourhood. No need for a bus ride or, God forbid, the subway.

Earphones plugged in, Anne tried with all her might to focus on the latest Buju Banton album, drowning out the sounds of the New York streets; crying babies, the screaming match between an on-again off-again couple, the occasional busker, and those creeps who’d make a pass at her. Due to the hot weather Anne’s wardrobe choices had been limited to skirts, denim shorts and dresses - all which meant that the unwanted leers and jeers from foul-mouthed, shameless men were inevitable. It didn’t stop her from wearing what she wanted, however. On this particular day, for example, she had chosen a pretty, cream and pear coloured floral crop top and matching short skirt, her worn-out pair of Chuck Taylors on her feet. She had no trouble saying she thought she looked pretty damn good.

She walked the mile or so to her record shop - quite literally, _her_ record shop, as her name was on the lease. It was called _‘Pop's Records’_ , and had been in the family for quite some years. Anne adored the shop and adored the fact that she had been allowed to make her mark on it. In the window hung a neon orange sign with the shop’s name and inside on the main wall was mural of Louis Armstrong that she just loved. Once a week she’d curate a collection of records that she really enjoyed, whether it be albums she grew up with or a new one she’d just discovered. It had helped build a rapport with regular customers and also allowed her to stand out from her competitors.

Unlocking the door, she could hear thundering footsteps down the street. Glancing to the side, she spotted a rabble of teenage boys waving their hands eagerly at her. They were all wearing cutoff jeans, hoodies (in this weather!) and vans as though it were a uniform. Some were on skateboards, others sprinting to keep up. When they reached her they were all panting, sweat beading down their foreheads. “Have you . . . got it? Tell us you've . . . you’ve got . . . it!” they managed to get out in ragged breaths.

Chuckling, she shook her head in disbelief. “I admire your dedication boys, I really do,” she muttered, pushing the door open. She allowed them to rush in first, and wasn’t surprised to see them make a beeline for the B section. As she absent-mindedly thumbed through the letters on the floor, she watched them flip through all the artists that began with a B, and then again just to make sure.

“Where is it?” they all cried in unison.

Anne laughed again. “Jeez, is individuality really dead?” she asked. Whilst Anne was young at twenty-three, these boys were all fourteen pushing fifteen - an entirely different generation. “I thought it was cool to be yourself these days.”

“Don’t fuck with us Wheeler,” the smallest one said, his finger pointed at her, his tone deadly serious. It took all she had not to laugh a third time.

She held her hands up. “Hey! I got a package last night but didn’t have time to organise it on the shelf,” she admitted, as she walked behind the counter, throwing her bag onto the chair. She leant down and picked up the cardboard box with great difficulty. Full to the brim with newly released vinyl records, the cellophane untouched, the box was deceptively heavy. The boys saw her struggling and to her surprise did nothing to help, instead rushing forward and watching with wide eyes. Placing the box on the counter she barely had time to step away before they descended upon the records with a savage sort of hunger only seen in wild animals. It reminded her of the hyenas she’d seen in a nature documentary about the Serengeti.

 _*ring ring!*_ The bell above the shop entrance rang to signal a new customer. Over the heads of the ransacking boys she could make-out a male figure, with a pair of sunglasses on. “I’ll be with you in a moment!” she called out to him, not wanting him to think she was being ignorant.

“Don’t worry, I’m just browsing,” he replied, holding a hand up.

Anne hated being driven by money, but she despised that phrase more than anything. _‘Just browsing’_ nine times out of ten really meant _‘I’m not really after anything I just want to be able to say that I visited a record shop today in order to seem cool amongst my friends - if you’re lucky I might tag the shop in a #nofilter post’._ She left the customer to it, barely paying him a moment’s notice, instead turning her attention back to the boys.

“Would I have heard any of Blockhampshire’s stuff then?” she teased them, knowing full well what the group was really called. She’d intended to listen to the album herself too later on, having been just as excited about the new release.

They all groaned, shaking their heads in disappointment. “God, you’re so old!” one of them muttered. She’d have been offended if any other customer, particularly one that was wearing more than one layer in this heatwave, had called her old, however this was just her usual banter with them; she’d badger them for being too young and they’d ridicule her for being too old. In fact, they had quite similar music tastes. Anne had introduced them to Kid Cudi and in turn they’d introduced her to Steve Lacy.

Each of them paid for a record each, and every time Anne applied a special 20% discount. It was only $2.40 off, but she remembered what it was like at that age, scraping all your savings together to buy the hottest new album by an artist you adored. She knew the kids grew up in her own neighbourhood, knew that their parents were more than likely working seventy hour weeks in minimum wage jobs. The $2.40 off could make the difference in a new tube of toothpaste.

“Thanks Anne for this,” the eldest one, Tyler, said, shyly holding up the record. His brother had been in Anne’s year at school, and was now serving a nine month sentence for petty drug offences. “Really, thanks.”

Anne shrugged it off. “Consider it early bird discount,” she grinned. “You would have got here before me if Adam’s little legs hadn’t been holding you back.” They all howled at her playful dig, jostling poor Adam about. The boy took it in his stride, however, even shooting her a coy wink.

“Oh, you need to check out Rico Nasty’s new song,” Tyler called to her as they made their way out of the shop. “Seems like your kind of vibe.”

Taking a mental note of the recommendation, Anne tapped her head. “Alright, now get to school! I ain’t having your teacher ringing me up again chewing my ear off,” she warned them. “If she asks why you’re late don’t drag me into it, tell her you were at the library or something!"

They waved at her as they headed back out into the street, eagerly discussing their purchases. Anne watched them go for a while, chuckling to herself as she attempted to lug the box of records over to the right aisle. Suddenly, she felt the box start to slip through her grip, and feared the worst; that the box would drop and the new records would shatter on the tiled floor, hundreds of dollars worth of stock wasted. However, luck was on her side. The customer who had stepped in after the boys rushed over, as quick as a dog on spilt food, and caught the box in his arms. 

“Good catch,” she said, a wave of relief rushing over her. Looking up at her saviour, she feared her every organ had shut down; her breath hitched in her throat, her heart stopped, her feet felt glued to the ground. The customer whom she had been so quick to dismiss was in fact Phillip Carlyle, award-winning Hollywood heartthrob.

The word handsome didn’t seem to do him justice. He was clean shaven, with a neat haircut, his hair a warm shade of chestnut. His physique was impressive to say the least; his muscles were on full display in his white t-shirt, flexing as he set the cardboard box down. Tanned, chiselled, and classically good-looking, he looked exactly like he did in the movies. He even smelt incredible too.

Anne didn’t have time to conceal her recognition of him, as the shock was written all over her expression. She couldn’t stop staring at him. Yes, she knew it was horrendously rude and that he must have hundreds of people stare at him everyday, but she truly couldn’t help. Realising that his disguise hadn’t really worked, Phillip pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into his jean pocket.

She had always assumed that his trademark blue eyes were enhanced with special effects in his films, or that he wore contact lenses, but they were even more striking in real life. The same colour as the waters surrounding a desert island, they made her knees feel a little weak. 

“Where do you want these?” he asked when she didn’t say anything, gesturing to the box at his feet.

Mentally cursing herself for acting such a fool, she shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry about it, I can manage. You are the customer, after all.”

He sized her up, which sent a shiver down her spine, his face breaking out into a smile. “I don’t mind,” he said. Before she could protest, Phillip bent down and picked up the records, with considerable ease. “Over by the rap, yeah?”

Still shell-shocked at the sight of Phillip Carlyle helping organise her little store, Anne took a few seconds to process what he had said. “No, by the alternative hip-hop - please.” For a second there she had forgotten her manners.

He chuckled softly. “That’s very particular,” he observed.

As they walked over to the right aisle, she tried to calm down, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Well, this is Brooklyn,” she told him. He set down the box and she began to unpack the records, slotting them into the right alphabetised sub-section. “People here are very . . . critical. As good as Brockhampton are, if I categorised them in the rap aisle, alongside Tupac and Biggie, there would be boycotts.”

“Fair enough,” he muttered, a grin still plastered on his features.

Finishing with the Brockhampton albums, she folded down the cardboard box, as he began to browse the rest of the albums. Rather awkwardly she stood there for a little while, not sure what to do. She wanted to talk to him, wanted to impress him or make him like her or _something_ , but her mind was only drawing a blank. She watched as he picked up an album in the R’n’B section that she hadn’t particularly liked, or heard good things about.

“That record’s really not great,” she told him, as he turned to look at her again. His eyebrow was knitted, but he didn’t dismiss her, so she continued. “Just in case browsing turned to buying.” She made her way towards him and leant past him, accidentally (no, really) brushing his chest as she picked out Jorja Smith’s debut album. "If you like R’n’B, this one, on the other hand, is very good. She actually sounds like she’s trying to make good music. A lot of songs about heartbreak, and growing up . . . which might relate to you?”

He was still holding the other vinyl. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.” _That meant no._

“No, I suppose melancholia isn’t for everyone,” Anne muttered, as she put the record back. “Can’t blame a record-seller for forcing their favourite music on customers. I’ll leave you to it.”

She walked back to the counter, her mouth dry and her palms sweaty. _What an idiot!_ Did he look like the kind of person who would listen to sappy, slow songs about teenage romances? She couldn’t have made it any more obvious that she was a fan. She should have just left him to it and stopped bothering him. Now there was no way he would ever come back.

The bell rang once more to signal a new customer. Glancing up, she flashed the young man an attempt at a welcoming smile, only to receive a frosty stare back. Raising her eyebrows, Anne decided to slip into the back room to take a quick look in the mirror - what sort of state did she look in? To her relief, she wasn’t that flushed. Nor was she too sweaty from her walk to work; she could pass the sheen on her skin off as dewy make-up. Adjusting the waistband of her skirt, she was about to head back to opening mail, when she caught sight of something on the CTV. The sullen teenager was trying to slip the new Lady GaGa album into his backpack.

“Hey!” Anne called out, bounding over to the door before the man could make a run for it. She caught him just in time, the man swearing as he sped to a halt. “In a rush, are we?”

The young man, who had a row of braces and an old bowl haircut, crossed her arms. So she had chosen to take the defensive? “Yes, I am actually. Can you move?”

Anne had the, in most cases, misfortune of being five foot ten. She towered over many men, which had caused much teasing in middle and high school. However, in some situations her remarkable height proved to work in her favour. For instance, intimidating potential thieves. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to keep you,” she said, hands on her hips. “First, hand over that record.”

“What record?”

“The one peeking out your bag,” she replied, pointing at the corner of the vinyl visible where the man had been unable to zip his backpack up. “Listen, I’d let you walk out of here with it here and now, it doesn’t matter to me. But what would Lady GaGa think? I’m assuming you’re a fan of hers; how do you think she would feel if she knew her fans were stealing albums she had worked hard to produce?” As silly as the sentence sounded, it had a profound effect on the man, who’s steely demeanour was starting to crack. “You can buy the record now, or give it over and come back later with the money - I’ll set it aside for you, if you’d like. Just don’t steal.”

After much mental deliberation, he chose to put the record back where it belonged, defeatedly. Anne made her way back over to the counter where she saw that Phillip was waiting, clutching the Jorja Smith record, watching the scene unfold with bemusement. Unable to help herself, she broke out into a grin when she saw what he was going to buy (her suggestion!), a swarm of butterflies erupting inside her stomach.

“Sorry about that,” she sighed, as she began his sale.

“It’s fine,” he replied, handing the record over so she could bag it. “I was going to steal one, but now I’ve change my mind.”

Their eyes locked, like some scene from a rom-com, and Anne felt this incredible magnetism between them that she prayed he could feel too. A beep from the cash register broke them apart. She laughed at his joke, rather belatedly, as he tapped his card to the contactless machine. “Decided to give Jorja Smith a try then?”

Taking the bag from her, Phillip grinned. A genuine, earth-shattering grin that stretched to his eyes. Her knees felt wobbly again. “This know-it-all music snob told me I wouldn’t like it, so I’m buying it to prove her wrong,” he teased.

“Ah, a petty purchase,” she said, coyly smiling back. “Well, the receipt's in the bag if you ever want to return it. Prove me right.”

Before he could say anything in return, which he appeared as though he was going to, the record thief skulked over, hovering beside Phillip. “Excuse me,” he piped up.

“Yes?” he replied, all traces of humour gone.

“Can I have your autograph?” Despite being caught out for stealing only moments ago, he was surprisingly forward, a piece of scrap paper stretched out in front of him.

Lips pursed, he nodded. “Sure,” he answered. His eyes scanned the counter for a pen, to which Anne handed him her own. “What’s your name?”

“Rufus.” Phillip scrawled away, signing the piece of paper with as little care and attention to detail as possible. He gave it back to the young man, who looked at it, struggling to make out the words. “What does it say?”

“That’s my signature, and above it, it says _‘Dear Rufus, you belong in jail’_.” Anne couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that left her lips. She saw the man shake his head, a bewildered expression on his face as he walked out of the shop.

As the laughter died down, awkwardness settled in. Phillip was stood clutching his new purchase, already sliding on his sunglasses. Anne wanted nothing more than for him to stay all day, keeping her company. However, she wasn’t a total fool. She knew he’d be busy, that he probably had work to do or errands to run - even if he didn’t, what was the likelihood that he’d want to spend his free time with her?

“Thanks,” he told her, holding up the bag. He was back to smiling again, which was making it hard for her to say goodbye to him.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she could feel her nose growing pink. “My pleasure,” she replied. And before she could help it, she had said; “Come back, anytime.”

When he didn’t say anything, she was positive that she’d only succeeded in scaring him off. Then, “Try and keep me away.”


	2. second chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anne and phillip meet again, and is it coincidence or fate?

Anne was stacking shelves with another delivery of new records, trying her best to focus on the task at hand and not of Phillip Carlyle, when her only employee, Jenny Lind, came bouncing into work forty minutes late. The cause of her tardiness became very clear; a fresh set of nails and newly plucked eyebrows. She had no shame either, waggling her fingers in Anne’s face to show-off the red polish.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?”

Widening her eyes, Anne sarcastically nodded. "Hmm, and do you know what else would be nice? You showing up to work on time for once." Jenny, who believed herself to be indispensable, merely laughed and shot her a wink as she crossed the store to put her bag behind the counter. "Hell, it would be a miracle,” she muttered under her breath.

Jenny had been a beauty pageant queen in high school, with one of her prizes being a year’s contract as a semi-successful record label. While her music went nowhere, played only on local radio stations, she did get to open up for Katy Perry once, which she brought up _constantly_ and caused her to believe she was above menial tasks.

After finishing up on the shelves, Anne was going to make a start organising the rack of gospel LPs that had been disorganised by a disinterested customer, when she noticed that Jenny was just sat down, still admiring her nails. Frowning, Anne walked over to her, arms crossed.

“Am I keeping you from anything?” she asked, her tone laced with sass.

Ever oblivious, Jenny simply shook her head, then paused. “I was going to make myself a coffee.” She pointed towards the ancient coffee filter that had been in the record shop longer than Anne had been alive.

“Don’t bother, it ain’t making anything but cement,” she sighed. “Look, I’ll pop down to the bodega and get us something. I could do with a drink.” Jenny’s eyes lit up, causing Anne to knit her eyebrows together and wrinkle her nose up. “Jesus, not that kind of drink. It’s 9:30 in the morning.”

Pouting, Jenny shrugged. “I’ll take a skinny latte then. No foam. Oh, can you ask them to make it with almond milk? Thanks doll.”

Grabbing her purse, Anne couldn’t escape Jenny’s ramblings quick enough. Five minutes in her company and she was ready to rip her hair out. Many, many, _many_ times a day she found herself wondering why she had kept Jenny around for the last three months, and many, many, _many_ times she had been unable to think up a good answer. It was due time that she was sacked, she realised that, but the truth was that she just didn’t have the heart to do it. She was waiting for a good enough reason to fire the poor girl.

Anne took her time, cherishing the time alone before she’d have to spend the rest of her day with blabbermouth. The bodega was only a couple hundred yards away, but she made sure that she took the longest possible route, crossing the road a couple of times to make the walk seem prolonged. _Karim’s Deli_ was the go-to spot for late-night cravings, afternoon snacks and everything in-between. Karim and his sons were Moroccan immigrants that had been in Crown Heights since the fifties - in fact, Anne’s step-father’s father, George, and Karim’s father, also called Karim, opened their businesses within a few months of each other. The pair banded together after both facing horrendous threats daily by the less than welcoming locals, who hadn't taken well to two black men owning successful shops.

Pushing the door open, she greeted Karim’s eldest, Hassan, with a warm smile. They had grown up playing in the street together. He was serving a particularly rowdy customer who appeared to have been drinking all through the night and was now suffering a terrible hangover, evident from the bags under his eyes and dishevelled attire. Hassan shot her a wide-eyed look, making it clear that he was trying not to laugh. Anne bit back a chuckle herself as she made her way towards the coffee machine. The options were limited to espresso, latte, americano and decaf; Jenny would just have to make do with a regular latte.

Clutching the two steaming takeaway cups, she joined the queue behind the disgruntled drunk. Hassan was having difficulty getting the right change out of him for an energy drink and a rather large bag of cheese puffs. The man thought that he was being cheated out of money, and made his frustration very clear by shouting at the top of his lungs. Anne admired Hassan’s cool-head, though supposed he was used to all sorts of angry customers, so he would've had to have developed a thick skin.

The man, fed-up, tipped his wallet upside down and emptied the contents onto the counter. “There!” he shouted, above the clattering of coins.

Calmly, barely reacting, Hassan began to count the money. He glanced up at Anne and raised an eyebrow. _“What do you think is up his ass?” _he asked her in French, a language they both spoke fluently thanks to their grandparents; her maternal grandparents were Haitians who moved to New Orleans in the sixties.__

__Anne shrugged. _“Perhaps those missing quarters?”_ Hassan laughed out loud, as the customer left, muttering something about _‘goddamn foreigners’.__ _

__Exchanging pleasantries about their day, Anne paid for her coffees. _“Caught up on Black Mirror yet?”_ she questioned, balancing the coffee in the palm of her hand as she held her purse in the other._ _

__Hassan shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. When he saw Anne’s shocked expression he sighed, scratching his beard. He’d always been handsome, even when they were kids, but with a beard he now seemed more mature and dapper. “I know! I know! Listen, we can binge-watch it together tonight if you want, order takeout?” He was also a horrendous flirt; Anne no longer knew if he meant it or was just teasing her because he knew it wound her up._ _

__“Thanks, Hass,” she called out to him as she left._ _

__Anne took a sip from her cup, drinking the piping hot americano. Coffee from the bodega was an acquired taste, but she rather liked it. Turning a corner, in her own world, she didn’t see the other person on the sidewalk until it was too late. The pair collided, causing Anne’s coffees to spill down her outfit and the man’s clothes too._ _

__Humiliated, she frantically began dabbing at the man’s t-shirt with the back of her hand, dropping the now empty cups and her purse onto the floor. All kinds of swear words were coming out of her mouth as she apologised over and over. Gently, he nudged her away, telling her it was fine, but she could hear the edge to his voice; he was pissed._ _

__She looked up for the first time at the man, and found herself face-to-face with Phillip Carlyle, once again. If this was a sappy Hollywood film, some popular, preppy love song - probably Taylor Swift - would be playing in the background, signalling to the audience that _this_ was _it_ , the moment the main characters realised that this wasn’t a chance meeting, but in fact destiny. However, the murky brown stain on his once pristine white shirt pulled her back to reality; in her case she wasn’t some happy-go-lucky twenty-something about to make a famous actor fall in love with her, but a klutz who never ceased to embarrass herself in from of said famous actor._ _

__Holding her head in her hands, she grimaced. “Oh God,” she muttered. “You must think I’m a total stalker. I swear I only left the store for the coffees.”_ _

__Whatever resentment had been bubbling to the surface had, seemingly, disappeared, replaced by a big smile. “It’s not a problem,” he told her, still scrubbing his t-shirt with a tissue he’d pulled from his pocket. The stain wasn’t shifting, his persistence only making it worse._ _

__“At the chance of sounding even more like a creep, my apartment is just two blocks away,” she said, a blush creeping up her cheeks as the words left her lips. “I have soap and water, you can clean yourself up.”_ _

__He paused, briefly, as though considering the offer. Then, common sense kicked in and he shook his head. “No, thank you,” he replied, politely. “I just need to call my driver and he can take me back to my hotel.”_ _

__Anne tried not to appear bothered by his rejection - of course he wouldn’t want to go back to some strange girl’s apartment, at least not after she’d thrown two drinks down him. She watched, awkwardly, as he pulled his phone from his back pocket. His face fell as he tapped the screen, which was still black._ _

__“Out of battery. Just my luck,” he sighed. He slid it back into his pocket. Scratching his head, he seemed almost a little sheepish as he asked; “So, just two blocks?”_ _

__The walk to her apartment felt like one of the longest walks of her life. She was so conscious of everything; the way her hair looked, the fact that she hadn’t shaved her legs in two days, or wondering if she smelt odd. Fiddling with her hands, she didn’t know what to do. Being around Phillip made her nervous, a kind of anxiety she had never really experienced before. It was stupid; she didn’t know him, not really. Knew nothing about him, except that he was a ridiculously famous movie star who also happened to be good-looking, charming and funny - just enough for her to blush horrendously when she was in his presence._ _

__It was painfully obvious that other people walking past them, going about their days, noticed him. Some were quite tactful about it, pretending to stop and check the time to get a better look at him, whilst others were just plain shameless, screaming and demanding selfies with him. Adding to the awkwardness of the situation, Anne would have to stop and linger, sometimes even taking the picture for the overly-ecstatic fans. She could tell people were trying to suss out what was going on with the pair; why she was with him, where they were going, and who she was. What made it worse was when they would pass somebody she went to school with, or had mutual friends in common. She was dreading the end of the day, when her Instagram DM’s were going to be flooded once word had spread._ _

__Finally, _finally_ , they reached her building. It was humble, to say the least; the bricks were faded, the fire escape was rickety, and a few windows were smashed. Anne had never really thought twice about her apartment; she’d grown up in one just like it, her friends and family all lived in similar buildings. At age twelve, she had her first kiss on one of those death traps better known as an old fire escape. However, stood beside Phillip, who undoubtedly lived in a Hollywood Hills mansion, with a pool that overlooked the ocean, she felt rather self-conscious - even more so when she opened the door._ _

__Hurriedly she rushed in and began to pick up takeaway boxes, used make-up wipes, dirty laundry and other, disgusting and mortifying, items off of the floor, the couch, and the dining table. “God, please pretend you didn’t see any of this,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I look like a total slob. Only half of this is mine I swear; I have a roommate. Not that it excuses it, I just . . . just thought you should know.” She was mumbling on and on, a habit only Phillip seemed to bring out in her._ _

__After collecting a pile of garbage and tossing them into her room where she’d rifle through it all later - or perhaps just set it all on fire as to stop herself remembering the whole disaster all together, she finally turned to face Phillip. He was looking at a pair of her panties, her favourite black ones, that were hanging on the back of the couch, a smirk playing on his lips. “Your roommates’ too, I suppose?”_ _

__Blushing furiously, she quickly snapped them up. “He’ll be flattered you thought they were his,” she said, wryly._ _

__Phillip raised an eyebrow. _“He?”__ _

__“No, we’re not . . . “ Anne saw him glance around the room, where her underwear had been strewn about the place; it certainly looked incriminating. “Oh God, no! It’s not like that! I’m not with . . . I mean, we’re not . . . I’m single. Completely and utterly single.” She blurted it out so abruptly that she instantly wished she’d held her tongue. It appeared as though she were informing him for some purpose, as though to make a point. “Not that you needed - _or wanted_ \- to know, I just . . . just said it. Matter-of-factly.” Her face was burning, and she found herself wishing the ground would swallow her up._ _

__"Good to know,” Phillip said, smiling. There was no trace of sarcasm or mocking to his voice, which she took some small comfort in; did he truly mean it? "Where's the bathroom? And would you mind if I used your phone to call my driver?"_ _

__Anne felt a complete fool; he was there to get cleaned up, not to listen to her ramble on. She gestured to the telephone hanging on the wall in the hallway, and to the bathroom on the left, and off he went. As he disappeared to make his call, Anne looked down at her own clothes and realised that they too were stained a disgusting, murky brown colour too - and her top was white too! She was certain she looked a mess, and decided that a change of clothes was needed. A - clean - laundry pile was laid atop the coffee table. Quickly, she rifled through it to find something to wear. She pulled out an emerald green baggy t-shirt as it was the closest item of clothing in the pile that resembled her current outfit. Tugging her top off her torso, she threw it to the side, when she heard a cough from the other end of the room._ _

__Her stomach lurched as she turned and saw Phillip standing in the doorway, his shirt slightly less brown and now sporting a large damp patch where he'd evidently tried to scrub at it. He wasn't looking at her, very clearly trying to avert his eyesight anywhere but at her topless body. Fortunatley she was wearing a bra, but the tiny, flimsy thing didn't make the situation any less awkward._ _

__"The stain wouldn't come out," he muttered, still looking down at his feet, as she pulled on the t-shirt as fast as she could. "In fact, I think I made it worse."_ _

__"I'm so sorry, it wasn't expensive was it?" Anne was mortified, but determined to push past it._ _

__Phillip looked up and shook his head, now that it was safe. "Only . . . $300," he answered, with a shrug._ _

__Anne's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, for a plain white shirt!" she cried, then clapped a hand over her mouth as she realised how rude that sounded. Luckily, he found it quite amusing. "I am so, so, _so_ sorry. I can pay for it to be cleaned, or replaced if you'd rather - "_ _

__"Thank you but that's not necessary," he told her, softly. "It's only a shirt. Anyway, I wasn't looking where I was going either. I’ve ruined your clothes too.”_ _

__Waving it off, Anne told him not to worry, assuring him that she can drop the top off at the dry cleaners, and if not it wasn’t a problem; it was only vintage._ _

__“But doesn’t vintage mean one of a kind? Irreplaceable?”_ _

__She smiled. “It also means cheap. Honestly, it’s ok.”_ _

__The pair stood across from one another, neither of them saying anything. She was very aware of the fact that Phillip was staring at her, sending a shiver down her spine. After a few moments, Anne looked over at the clock on her wall. It was nearly ten. She’d left Jenny in the shop alone for too long._ _

__“It’s time I get back to work,” she sighed._ _

__Phillip raised an eyebrow. “Kicking me out?” he teased, as he headed towards the door. “Are you sick of me already?"_ _

__“Not possible,” she replied, following. “Can I just say, before you go, that this has been so surreal. Surreal but . . . nice.”_ _

___What a stupid thing to say!_ Once again, for the hundredth time that morning, she had embarrassed herself. She opened the door for him, unable to look him in the eyes. He stepped out into the hallway, but not before flashing her a warm smile._ _

__“Thanks, for everything,” he told her. He appeared as though he was going to say something else, when his common sense returned and he disappeared down the hall. Anne wanted to watch him leave, hoped he would turn around and give her one last glimpse at his dazzling blue eyes._ _

__However, she closed the door and leant against the wood panelling, and let out a sigh. Her stomach was in knots and had been all morning. She would have to make herself some green tea or something to calm down before heading back to the record shop. Making her way towards the kettle, she heard a knock on the door._ _

__It didn’t even cross her mind that it would be Phillip coming back, so when she opened the door she was stunned to see him on the other side. He looked a little sheepish. “Sorry, forgot my phone,” he said._ _

__Allowing him in, Anne tried to ignore the hammering of her heart in her chest as she closed the door. He fetched his phone from the bathroom were he had left it, and held it up triumphantly. She laughed a little, fiddling with the hem of her too-big t-shirt that was really only meant for sleeping or painting in. They were stood barely two feet apart, so close that she could smell the coffee clinging to his clothes. Glancing up at him, she was trying to think of something to say, anything really, when he reached forward and tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. She froze, his fingertips brushing her cheek. He was gazing at her, the way every girl wanted to be looked at, his bright blue eyes flitting between her eyes and her lips._ _

__That’s when he kissed her. She was so taken aback that she didn’t do anything except close her eyes and kiss back. One of his hands was on the back of her head, the other clutching his shopping bags, the vinyl she had sold him tucked in one of them. Her hands were by her side, unsure what to do with them or where to put them. He was pressed so close to her, holding her to him as though she might slip away if he let go._ _

__The kiss was electrifying to say the least. All her nerve endings felt as though they were on fire. Her mind went completely blank except one thought; _Phillip Carlyle is kissing me!_ It was tame (no tongue or anything), but it was still good. Really good. When they broke apart, Anne stood, open-mouthed, staring at him. He ran a hand through his hair, a blush creeping up his face._ _

__“I don’t know why I did that,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I never do anything like . . . _that._ ”_ _

__The buzzing inside Anne’s body fizzled out almost immediately. “Oh. Sorry.” She took a step back, not making eye contact with him._ _

__“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” Phillip quickly amended. He took her hand in one of his and smiled. “I just didn’t want you thinking I kiss strangers all the time. There’s just _something_ about you, I couldn’t resist.”_ _

__Anne wanted to giggle, much like a schoolgirl would, but instead grinned back at him. “Good.”_ _

__“Are you free - “_ _

__Before he could finish the end of the question, they were interrupted by the sound of rattling keys in the doorway. Anne’s stomach lurched with dread as she pulled her hand out of his. “Oh God, it’s my roommate,” she muttered. “I’m sorry, there’s really no excuse for him.”_ _

__Phillip knitted his brow with confusion, when the door swung open. In walked Charles Stratton, a three foot tall comedian with a penchant for profanity. He’d clearly been out all night, God knows where, his hair ruffled and his clothes creased. He didn't acknowledge the movie star standing in his apartment, instead stomping in straight towards his bedroom. “I’m going to have a nap, and when I wake up I’m gonna tell you a story that’s gonna make your balls shrink to the size of raisins,” he muttered, then chuckled to himself. “Well, if you had balls.”_ _

__Anne’s eyes bulged out of her head, as she let out a deep sigh. “Again, we’re not a thing,” she assured him._ _

__Phillip laughed a little, as he reached towards the door latch. “Probably best not to tell anyone about this?” he said, slipping on his sunglasses._ _

__Nodding, Anne wished that he wouldn’t leave. “Right, yeah. I mean, I’ll tell myself sometimes, but even I won’t believe it.” It was another lame thing to say, but she was embracing it now - the fact that he had kissed her, even after she’d said some dorky things meant that he wasn’t put off by how she spoke._ _

__He grinned at her, a bright, authentic smile that made Anne’s heart skip a beat. Opening the door, he seemed poised to leave, when he leant forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. The gesture was very sweet; she couldn’t remember the last time somebody had kissed her on the cheek - at least, somebody who wasn’t eighty._ _

__He then walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving behind a shellshocked Anne._ _


	3. mr. flintstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anne is feeling pretty neglected.

Three days had passed. Three very long, very dull days. Anne hadn’t told anyone about her encounter with Phillip Carlyle, though she had been desperate to tell her brother when he attempted to set her up with a friend. Not that she was under any illusions that she was in a relationship with Phillip, she just had to clear her mind before committing to any sort of date.

What made the situation worse, what stopped her from forgetting the feel of his lips on hers, was when she made the disastrous decision to go the cinema with her friend Patsey to see _‘Georgia Swing’_ , Phillip’s new film. It was about an up and coming silent movie actor, Frank Fairbanks, who falls in love with Georgia Sweetwater, the daughter of a movie producer. Hijinks ensue as the pair try to hide their relationship, especially from her fiancé, a rather famous and extremely jealous actor.

As they settled into their seats, clutching a generous bag of popcorn each, Anne felt nauseous, the kind of jittery stomach you get when you're seasick. Around them people were chattering excitedly, plenty of them young girls eager to watch what promised to be the film of the summer. When the movie started, she found it rather difficult to concentrate. The face on the fifty foot cinema screen was the same face that had been in her shop, in her apartment - the lips that were speaking were the same lips that had kissed her.

The film itself was rather . . . plain. She found it predictable, the story too fast paced at times and then all together far too slow at other points. The narrative was too simple, but the dialogue over-complicated things. The antagonist wasn’t clear, as though the writers couldn’t decide whether to make the fiancé or the father the villain. The worst part of the movie was that the relationship between Phillip’s character Frank, and the female lead, Ursula Rhineberg, felt forced and unnatural. It seemed as though the producers needed big names to draw an audience, and chose Ursula Rhineberg due to her thirty-six million followers on Instagram.

The only thing that made the film bearable was Phillip. His baby blue eyes, a colour that she now knew was more vibrant in person, conveyed all the right emotions, made his performance captivating. He was a wonderful actor, a fact only emphasised by the awfulness of the movie he was in. In one particular scene, during a costume fitting, he was shirtless, and Anne heard the audience gasp. Her heart began to beat erratically, as she remembered the feel of his chest against hers. 

After the movie ended, Patsey turned to her, a big, cheesy grin plastered to her features. “Wasn’t that incredible!” she exclaimed, enthusiastically. “God, I could watch Phillip Carlyle all day. I mean, can you believe that some lucky girl out there gets to kiss him?”

Anne’s mouth went dry. She didn’t say anything, instead crumbling her empty popcorn bag into a ball in her fist.

They left the movie theatre, surrounded by others who were babbling on about how great the film was. Patsey suggested they go and get something to eat, but all Anne could think about was why Phillip hadn’t contacted her. Not that he should, or had any reason to, it was just that if it were the other way around, and she was the one who had kissed someone in their own home then left without warning, she liked to think that she would at least call. She wanted clarification, or at least some semblance of an explanation. What was he going to ask her before Charles burst in? She wanted to know that. Mostly, she just wanted to hear his voice. Not on a movie screen, talking to an audience of the paying public, but directly to her.

She made her excuses to Patsey, claiming to have a pile of receipts to sort through and taxes to file at the record shop, apologised profusely, and left to go straight home. On her walk back to the apartment, she came to the conclusion that she was mad at Phillip. Mad at him for leading her on. It had been three days and she’d had nothing but radio silence. He certainly had her number, at least the number for the phone in the apartment, as he had used it to call his driver! And he knew where she worked so he could easily phone the record shop. _And_ he knew her address too, if he were at a loss for all other means of communication! Why didn’t she deserve a phone call at the very least, just to explain his behaviour. He was the one that had kissed her, he was the one that made the first move. He had said that he didn’t do that kind of thing, kissing strangers, but she had a horrible feeling she was just another silly girl who had fallen for his act. Would he have taken it further if they hadn’t been interrupted, and would she have said no?

Feeling rotten, Anne jammed her keys into the door and threw the door open. She hadn’t been expecting Charles to be sat on the couch, clipping his toenails, or else she’d have made a less dramatic entrance.

“Woah, woah, what’s got your panties in a twist?” he teased, flicking a jagged piece of toenail onto the coffee table.

Crinkling her nose up in disgust, Anne rolled her eyes. “My panties are none of your business,” she snapped. “Do you have to do that here?”

“Well, I normally do it in the bath, but all the hot water’s gone again,” he said, whipping round to face her. He had a whopping great bruise on his cheek, which for Charles usually meant the sign of a good night.

“That’s because you need to pay your share of the rent,” she reminded him, flicking through the pile of mail that had accumulated at the foot of the door. All just junk mail; leaflets about window washers and dog sitters. She was looking for anything addressed to her, as she had been the last three days - in particular, a letter from a certain someone. Of course she knew that it was stupid; who even wrote letters these days? “Look, you’ve been at home all day. Has there been any messages on the phone?”

“One, yeah,” he murmured, turning his attention back to his grotesquely mangled toenails.

Then nothing. Anne circled the couch so that she was facing him, her hands on her hips, a stance that reminded her of her late mama. "Well? Who was it from?"

Charles paused as he thought about it momentarily. "Your brother, I think."

So it was from a man. "It either was or it wasn't!"

"No, it was definitely W. D. - same Louisiana drawl," he decided. "Wanted to remind you that his birthday dinner is tomorrow and that if you don't have a date his friend is still very keen." At the mention of a date he wiggled his eyebrows in what was either an attempt at being flirty or to rile her up - it was rather difficult to tell with him. "You know, I'm free tomorrow if you fancy - "

Anne snorted in disgust. "Not even if you were the last man in New York," she retorted. Then she sighed and threw herself onto the raggedy old armchair. "In future, write my messages down, or at least remember to tell me about them."

"Of course, your highness," Charles said, with a mock now of the head. “If suddenly we're being all obsessive about remembering messages, you had a phone call from a guy called Phillip a couple of days ago."

She shot up, suddenly alert. "Phillip?"

"Yeah, but he was a bit of a weirdo. Said his name was Phillip, but that you should call him back at The Plaza and ask for Mr. Flinstone! I tell you Anne, you do attract some characters.”

Anne didn’t care what Charles had to say next, as she bound over to the phone. He had called! Oh, what an idiot she was. She’d been moping around, thinking he wasn’t interested or cared about her, when he had in fact called her. Now, due to Charles’ stupidity, Phillip was going to think that she was the one ignoring him.

As quickly as she could, she found the number for The Plaza by searching it up on her phone, then punched those numbers into the telephone on the wall. The ringing was nerve-wracking and before she could hang-up the receptionist’s voice came through loud and clear.

“Oh, hi, I’m calling to talk to um . . . to talk to . . . is there a Mr. Flinstone staying there?”

She sounded stupid, asking for a cartoon character, but within seconds she was being connected with one of the guests.

“Hello?” came the voice down the phone. It was unmistakably Phillip’s, and sent goosebumps down her neck.

Suddenly frantic, Anne turned her back on Charles, who fortunately was more interested in his toenails than her conversation. “Hi, Phillip it’s . . . uh, it’s Anne,” she told him, chewing on her lip. When he didn’t say anything, she could feel her cheeks burning up. “The girl from the record store?”

“You played it real cool there, Anne from the record store,” he replied. She could have sworn he was smiling, though how she could tell through the phone was a mystery. “Waiting three days to call me. I’d almost given up on you.”

“Trust me, I’ve never played anything cool in my life.” That made him laugh, which emboldened her. “My roommate, who I’m gonna stab to death later, wasn’t writing down any messages.”

“Don’t murder anyone on my account,” he teased. “Save it for when you’re really furious with him. Wait until he eats the last piece of toast or something.”

Anne snorted with laughter, then immediately clapped her hand to her mouth; her humiliation never ceased.

“I was wondering - “

“When are you - “

They had both spoken at the same time, resulting in their words overlapping each other’s until neither of them heard what they other had said.

“You go first,” he said, politely.

Anne wished he had been the one to speak first, as she wanted to know what he was going to say before she asked him out. Perhaps he had lost interest? Or had he bumped into another coffee-carrying record store owner whose taste in music was just a little bit better and whose hair wasn’t as wild and whose nose wasn’t quite so wide and whose chest wasn’t as flat and . . .

Quickly, she decided to blurt out her question before she reeled off too many flaws about herself. “Do you, maybe, want to grab a drink with me? Sometime?”

Though it was probably only a few seconds, Anne felt as though it took Phillip hours to respond. She had enough time to imagine countless ways he would reject her, many of which included him laughing at her until he was blue in the face.

“Definitely. Meet me at my hotel for lunch, at half one?”

“That’s rather forward.”

“No, no, it's not like that, I promise. We can go from there into the city.” He paused. Was he nervous? “Say yes, Anne."

“Yes,” she replied, stunned. Had she really got a date with Phillip Carlyle? “I’ll see you then. Can’t wait. Bye.”


End file.
